


Bite the Hand

by 28ghosts



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, M/M, Rating May Change, tags will be slowly added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 01:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9634358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/28ghosts/pseuds/28ghosts
Summary: For the prompt:Getting a guide dog has been a work in process for Chirrut for a quite a while. And when he finally gets one, it's not a trained guide dog, but a massive hairy beast from the streets. But hey, the dog is clearly smart and knows whats it's doing helping Chirrut out, so what if it seems like the dog understands what people are saying and acts a bit weird. At the same time Baze isn't exactly sure how he ended up becoming a guide dog to this reckless asshole. And if he's gonna help the guy stay alive, Chirrut might as well help him to break the curse.“So the last dog in this section is named Baze,” Jyn says, starting to sound a little strained. “We just got him yesterday, so I don’t know much about him. Like his temperament. Or his sign. Or if he bites or dislikes jazz.”Chirrut tips his head and asks seriously, “Do you receive many dogs who dislike jazz at this facility?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](https://rogueonekink.dreamwidth.org/1084.html?thread=460860#cmt460860) on the kink meme.

Most of the time, Bodhi loves working for Chirrut. Chirrut is a good boss. He lets Bodhi take days off for things like sci-fi conventions and equinox spellwork retreats in the mountains, as long as he asks a week or two in advance. And Chirrut’s shop is absolutely awesome. Like, the best place to work at _ever_. Especially since he gets an employee discount on everything. Like, _everything_. Which had been the only way he’d afforded enough dreamsnake skin to draw wards around his mom’s house so she wouldn’t have to move after being cursed with a poltergeist. Working for Chirrut is mostly the best.

And then some days Chirrut comes in at 11am, flips the sign on the door to ‘Closed,’ and says cheerfully, “I need you to drive me to the animal shelter. I had a dream they have a dog that understand Mandarin.”

It’s not that Bodhi doesn’t believe that Chirrut is a powerful warlock in his own right, even if he doesn’t like actually assembling and casting spells so much anymore, preferring to “make himself open to the will of the universe” and stuff like that. That was kind of why Chirrut had hired him. He’d shown up at the diner Bodhi worked at and said, “Hey, you know magic, right?”, and Bodhi had half-panicked and denied it and Chirrut explained he was looking for a new employee and had a dream Bodhi would be at this diner and would be a good hire. So, hey. Bodhi wasn’t gonna argue with that.

But, Bodhi thinks, sometimes a dream is just a dream. Like a dog that speaks Mandarin. That’s just weird.

He feels bad for the poor shelter volunteer who’s been walking Chirrut from pen to pen, awkwardly attempting to describe every dog in the shelter. Her name is Jyn, and so far Chirrut has asked her whether or not a Dachshund named Cody “has the face of a friend,” what type of aura a German Shepherd mix has, and, with a completely straight face, if she happened to know whether a hound happened to be a Pisces.

“So the last dog in this section is named Baze,” Jyn says, starting to sound a little strained. “We just got him yesterday, so I don’t know much about him. Like his temperament. Or his sign. Or if he bites or dislikes jazz.”

Chirrut tips his head and asks seriously, “Do you receive many dogs who dislike jazz at this facility?”

Sometimes Chirrut is, like, way more embarrassing than Bodhi’s mom, who is the sort of mom who somehow uploads a new baby picture of Bodhi once a week. And they are all awful baby pictures. Bodhi was a fat baby, and his mother liked putting novelty sunglasses on him.

“Actually, that was what one dog’s owner said, yeah,” Jyn says. “Came in with this Labrador Retriever and actually said he had to surrender it for adoption because it didn’t like his girlfriend’s jazz flute practice.”

“Okay, but that’s just sensible. Who actually likes jazz flute?” Bodhi asks.

“Baze, do you like jazz flute?” Chirrut asks.

The dog barks.

“Not Baze,” Chirrut says serenely.

“So, um, anyways, what I _can_ tell you about this dog is, like I said, _we_ just got him, someone else found him like a week ago. He had a collar with his name written on it but no number or address and no microchip. He doesn’t seem to know any commands, but he doesn’t jump. He might be a Newfoundland mix. He’s huge with long, wiry fur and doesn’t like leashes.”

“Hmm,” Chirrut says. And then he says something in what Bodhi assumes is Mandarin.

And the dog sits politely.

Chirrut says something else.

The dog lies down.

Chirrut turns, looking smugger than Bodhi could have possibly ever imagined. “See?” he says. “He speaks Mandarin!”

Bodhi resolves privately to never, ever doubt Chirrut again.

-

“So, what was that all about?” Jyn asks Bodhi while Chirrut sits in the pen with Baze, attempting to map out the poor dog with his hands.

“He...had a dream that there would be a dog here today that spoke Mandarin,” Bodhi says. No use trying to hide that.

“He was totally just messing with me asking all those weird questions, right?”

“Yeah,” Bodhi says.

Jyn stares at him in utter confusion. “But with the Mandarin thing you were just like, yeah, sure, buddy, sounds about right?”

Bodhi shrugs. It would be kind of weird trying to explain to some random animal shelter volunteer that he works at a magic shop -- no, not that kind of magic shop, like a _magic_ shop -- and Chirrut is his boss who sometimes has prophetic visions and dreams. 

Jyn seems to consider him. She’s pretty, Bodhi supposes, in a scary sort of way, with a round face and serious eyes. Then she seems to decide on something. She pulls a necklace out from under her NO-KILL NOVEMBER ASPCA t-shirt and kind of dangles it in front of Bodhi. “Does this mean anything to you?”

“Oh, my god,” Bodhi says. “Where did you get your hands on _kyber_?”

She lets him touch it. It’s the first time he’s ever touched kyber, and he’s kind of geeking the hell out. He knows Chirrut has some, but he keeps it at home with all his dangerous stuff. 

“Oh, is Jyn acknowledging she has a very special necklace?” Chirrut yells all of the sudden.

Jyn grabs the necklace back, flinches, and hisses, “I thought he was blind?”

“Oh, yeah,” Bodhi says. His hands still feel kinda warm. “I work at a magic shop and Chirrut’s my boss and he sometimes has prophetic visions and dreams.”

“Oh,” Jyn says, steadying. She hands the necklace back to him. “That’s cool.”

-

The paperwork doesn’t take long. “He’s not fixed,” Jyn says, staring suspiciously at Baze, who’s sitting politely and attentively at Chirrut’s feet even with a leash on. “Normally we wouldn’t adopt a dog out who hadn’t been fixed, but honestly we’re so crowded right now, and he gets along with you, so, like, witch to warlock, I’m just gonna put on his paperwork that he’s actually already been fixed. You should get that taken care of sometime soon, though.”

Baze makes a low, irritated noise that makes Bodhi a little alarmed. Chirrut reaches down to pat Baze’s head and says, “I’m not too worried. He doesn’t seem aggressive.”

-

Chirrut says he trusts the dog enough for it to come back to the shop with them. Bodhi thinks this is a bad idea, but then again, Chirrut’s the one who had a prophetic dream about a weird giant Mandarin-speaking dog. So Baze comes back to the shop, sniffs around a little bit, and then falls asleep behind the counter as far away from Chirrut and Bodhi as possible.

Chirrut is a great boss, but working for him is _weird_.


	2. Chapter 2

Baze is almost eighteen years old when he gets bitten.

Luckily, the Third Church of the Force of Others is pretty forgiving. Not forgiving enough to not kick him out, but forgiving enough not to kill him.

That’s fine.

Baze has always been fine on his own. And that was before he gained the ability to shapeshift into a wolf. So he’ll be fine afterwards, too.

He is until he’s 34.

-

Baze is 34 and only realizes there’s something wrong when, the morning after a full moon, he wakes to warmth and sunlight.

He stands, and he’s still on four legs.

And he’s surrounded by a 10-foot high chainlink fence.

As a child, Baze had never been strong in the Force the way other students were. His ability to come out on top during hand-to-hand owed more to his early growth spurt and broad shoulders than it did to his ability to sense his opponents’ moves before they were made. He had no prophetic dreams, no eerie gift of persuasion. But like all living beings, he could, after years of training and meditation, sense the Force in living things. 

Being bitten only honed his senses. The phase of the moon became a constant weight in the back of his mind, and Baze could scent blood from half a mile off. And while Baze had always been a quick and accurate judge of character, the werewolf side of him was even better: it never took him more than a glance to tell predator from prey.

The man in white standing on the other side of the chainlink fence is a predator.

-

The man doesn’t feed him for a week. It doesn’t matter how much Baze barks or lunges at the fence. He tries digging, and the man shoots him with a taser. The next time he wakes up, he’s in a different pen, this one lined with concrete. It smells like blood. It smells like something dead.

Baze doesn’t feel like a wolf. His senses are wrong: muddier, duller, grayer. The man shows up and tazes him again. He wakes up in the first pen he was in again, but now there’s concrete poured around the edges of the fence, and he’s wearing a too-tight collar that smells like wolfsbane.

He has no idea what’s happening to him or why. The man gives him water to drink but without food he gets weak. He spends hours sleeping. One night it rains and he can’t even bring himself to pad over to the sheltered corner of the pen. He lies in the mud and prays to the Force that he might fall asleep and not wake back up.

Baze has spent his years alone. There is no one who will notice him missing. No one who will be looking for him. No one who will mourn him.

When the man brings him food, it reeks of magic. But Baze is hungry, and he is worn down. He eats it. He knows he’s made a mistake even before the pain sets in. The next day he gets dog food, though. Perhaps it should feel shameful to eat dog food, but it does not reek of magic, and it sits in his stomach without making him feel like he’s on fire. After that, the man feeds him twice a day.

-

He loses track of how many days and nights pass, but his heavy sense of the lunar cycle never fades. The night it wanes into nothing, leaving the sky black but for stars, Baze barks until the man comes out of his house and sprays him with a hose. He doesn’t get any food the next day. “You’ll go hungry until I’m convinced you’ve learned from pulling off that little stunt, do you understand?” the man shouts.

Baze growls, and he gets the hose again.

The moon slowly fattens in the sky, and with it Baze’s restlessness only grows. The full moon will come, and perhaps Baze will transform back into his wolf and rip this man limb from limb.

Baze has only killed a few people, and he has never killed them while transformed. It is a point of pride. He controls his wolf; he is not controlled. For this man, he will make an exception.

-

Three days before the full moon, the man stops feeding him.

It makes Baze nervous. The man knows Baze is a werewolf, and he has something planned. Baze has the feeling he’s being experimented on. 

The transformation is always agonizing on an empty stomach.

-

The evening of the full moon, the man sets a folding chair in front of Baze’s pen and sits in it, staring at Baze. He carries a shotgun, which he sets in his lap. Baze can smell the silver even from a distance. He backs up into the farthest corner of the pen, growling. Baze is going to transform, and this man will kill him before he can tear through the fence and rip his throat out.

The man lights a cigarette. “Not so tough now, are you, Baze Malbus?”

Baze freezes. What had been an even mix of anger and fear becomes mostly fear.

He has no idea who this man is, but this man knows who _he_ is.

“It seems lycanthropes are always more brawn than brain,” the man says idly. “Tragic, really.”

It gets darker. The sun sets. Baze waits for the familiar roil of anger and animal instinct to overwhelm him and force his body into a new shape. He waits, and the moon rises, and the transformation does not come.

“Finally,” the man says. He leans back in his folding chair in sheer relief. “Finally.”

-

The man tazes him again in the morning. He wakes up in an unfamiliar kennel. This, too, smells like animal death. He is so hungry that he can barely think, and he is terrified.

But the fencing is loosely attached to one post.

He waits until it’s dark and the lights in the distant house have all gone off, and he throws his body against the fencing until it gives way. And then Baze runs.

He runs for a long time.

-

He lurks in expansive suburban backyards, eating catfood left out overnight. It’s not enough to fill him up, but it gives him enough energy to keep moving. He tries to keep heading east, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the man in white. 

He needs -- he needs help. But he doesn’t know who to go to.

It’s a week before he gets careless and falls asleep behind a shed, and he wakes up to a child trying to tempt him with slices of ham. And Baze knows he should bolt, but the smell is too much to resist -- and he can’t begrudge the child’s hands going immediately for his collar; he knows his strength, he can pull away -- but then there’s the child’s terrified mother rushing out of the house and screaming for Finn to stop touching the strange dog -- and Baze isn’t going to _bite_ this kid -- 

That’s how Baze ends up sleeping in a garage. Finn’s mother feeds him twice a day. Finn sneaks in to pet him sometimes. He tells Baze that his mom is putting up flyers, that it’s funny Baze’s name is on the collar but no phone number. He says he wants to adopt Baze, but his mom is too busy for a dog.

They take him to a shelter. Finn cries, and Baze licks the tears off his face. Finn’s mom lets him, surprisingly. Maybe she’s figured out that Baze isn’t a threat. He doesn’t know. “Maybe we can get a cat,” Finn’s mother says, as they walk out of the shelter hand-in-hand.

The shelter volunteer holding Baze’s leash sighs. “Sweet kid,” she says, to no one. She bends into a crouch and stares Baze in the eyes. “You’re pretty sweet too, huh?”

Baze intends to growl to dispel the volunteer of her first impression of him, but he catches the heady scent of _kyber_. Shock rings through him like the temple bell being struck hard. He just stares. _Kyber_. Does she come from the Church? Is she a practitioner? Did she just find a shiny rock on the sidewalk and find herself drawn to it for reasons she couldn’t explain?

Can she help him?

-

He is, for the most part, ignored at the shelter. The other dogs ignore him. They can tell he’s different. It means he gets a pen all to himself. He doesn’t mind that.

-

Baze is so startled when a man tells him sternly in Mandarin to sit that he actually does.

And then the man looks so pleased that when he says, again in Mandarin, to lie down, well, Baze does.

Things only escalate from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the number of chapters might change, but based out my outline i think it'll end up with 10. thanks for reading, next chapter will probably get posted this friday <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- As I don't speak a word of Mandarin, _italics_ signify a character using Mandarin  
>  \- Thank you thank you thank you for reading!! If you wanna talk Rogue One, I'm [on tumblr](http://twentyeightghosts.tumblr.com/) :^)

It’s only after the shelter employee wearing a kyber crystal opens the door to Baze’s pen that Baze realizes the man who speaks Mandarin is also blind. He has a cane he uses to tap against the ground and feel things out, and the shelter volunteer is also attempting to describe the layout of the pen to him. He waves her off, though, and gently sits down in one fluid motion, letting his cane clatter to the floor.

Still in Mandarin, he says, “ _Please don’t chew that,_ Baze.”

Baze is, despite himself, curious. He pads over, 

“My name is Chirrut,” the blind man says, tentatively holding his hand out. Baze butts his head against it, and Chirrut makes a pleased sound, reaching out with both hands to feel the shape of Baze’s head. His touch is abrupt at first, as if surprised by Baze’s height and width, but gentles quickly.

Baze’s Force-sense is hardly prodigious, but the feeling of energy hangs around Chirrut like a physical thing. He doesn’t know what sort of practitioner Chirrut is -- if he calls the stuff he manipulates magic or the Force or something altogether else. But Chirrut is a practitioner; Baze knows it.

Chirrut’s hands push back to Baze’s shoulders, and he digs his fingers into Baze’s fur, feeling out its depth, its texture. He doesn’t say anything. He just focuses.

And then Chirrut squints and jerks his head back towards the shelter volunteer and calls out something about her necklace.

He hears her whisper, “I thought he was blind?”

“Not deaf,” Chirrut says to himself, more quietly than the volunteer.

The man who’d come with Chirrut says, “Oh, yeah. I work at a magic shop and Chirrut’s my boss and he sometimes has prophetic visions and dreams.”

“Oh,” the volunteer says. “That’s cool.”

“ _Well, what do you think?_ ” Chirrut asks quietly. “ _I have a small yard, but you don’t seem too active, hmm?_ ”

Baze doesn’t know if Chirrut actually expects an answer. Doesn’t know if whatever dream Chirrut had happens to have told him that Baze isn’t all he seems. He flops down onto his stomach, and Chirrut’s touch follows him down. One of his front paws touches the sole of Chirrut’s boot.

Chirrut’s hands drag up his back to dig into the fur behind his ears. It’s only by virtue of having been stuck in this form for so long that Baze lets his tail wag. He resents the fact that it feels good. But if he’s ever going to break this -- this curse, this spell, whatever it is, he won’t be able to do it without a Force-user. Maybe this dreamer can help.

“I’ll take him,” Chirrut says, to the volunteer.

-

Chirrut is right-handed. He holds his cane with his left hand and Baze’s leash in his right hand, 

“Really, it might be better for Bodhi to take the leash, Mr. Imwe,” the volunteer says. “He’s -- he really isn’t leash-trained.”

Like Baze would yank a blind man off his feet. He’d only tried that on the first few shelter volunteers, when he’d thought he could make a break for it. He sits next to Chirrut and does his best to look obedient.

“Thank you, Jyn, but I’m not worried,” Chirrut says serenely.

Chirrut taps his cane twice, then takes a step forward. Baze rises and tries to match his pace, lagging just a step behind Chirrut. It occurs to Baze that Chirrut is lucky Baze isn’t actually a poorly trained dog with an aversion to leashes.

Baze just hears Jyn sigh. “Of course he walks nicely on a leash _now_ ,” she says to herself.

-

Bodhi opens the back door of his station wagon, and Baze hops in. The car smells like fast food. Mostly like fries and spilled diet soda.

At least Bodhi is a cautious driver. After they’ve pulled out of the parking lot, he says, “I can’t believe you adopted a dog today. You just woke up and decided today was the day. And now it’s done. Do you even own dog food?”

“No,” Chirrut says cheerfully.

Bodhi sighs. Baze hears the sound of Bodhi tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “We could do that now if you’d like.”

“Wonderful idea. I’ll pay you overtime.”

“Can’t say no to that,” Bodhi says.

They bring Baze into the pet store with them. Chirrut insists on loudly consulting him about different flavors of dog food. Baze ignores him the whole time.

-

Chirrut insists on bringing Baze back to the magic shop. “He’ll be fine,” he says.

“You have a consult at 3p.m., do you really want to leave him alone with me?”

Baze is sniffing the shelves. It seems like a standard supply shop.

“He’ll be fine,” Chirrut repeats. Within the shop, he doesn’t use his cane. He seems to know every inch of the place by heart. “The Force around him is gentle.”

Bodhi groans and smacks his head against the countertop.

That answers the question about Chirrut’s affiliation -- a Force Church of some sort, a formal discipline. Baze wanders back behind the counter and curls up with the wall to his back.

-

While Chirrut is out, Bodhi squats down in front of him and stares. Bodhi’s skin smells like incense, and his sweat smells anxious. “Baze,” Bodhi says. “Bark three times if you’re a human trapped as a dog.”

Baze’s thoughts grind to a half.

Does Bodhi know?

It can’t be a coincidence that some Chinese magic-user shows up and adopts him from a magic-using shelter volunteer and then takes him back to his magic shop. Can it? Is one of these people the reason Baze is trapped?

And -- if not -- it’s not like all magic-users smile on werewolves. Even if Bodhi and Chirrut decided to help him if they knew the truth, maybe they’d just kill him anyways, once they learned.

( _If_ they learned. Maybe they’d transform him back, then just...let him go?)

The safest thing to do is wait. He doesn’t know enough about this curse or about Chirrut and Bodhi to make a good decision. Surely if he wants to reveal himself later, he can find some way to communicate. And if he learns enough to know he needs to escape, well, if he acts obedient enough, they’ll trust him enough they’ll leave him alone long enough for him to bolt.

Meanwhile, at least he’ll have a roof over his head and an owner who doesn’t seem overly keen on paying to get him neutered. He’d been worried about that.

Baze wuffs at Bodhi quietly.

Bodhi’s shoulders slump in relief. “Oh, thank the stars,” he says. “That would be really weird, huh?”

He reaches out to pet Baze. Baze intends to growl, but his body betrays him and he hears his tail thump against the hardwood floor of the magic store.

Must be because dogs are hard-wired to seek out human affection. Not because today marks twice he’s been touched by people who don’t want to hurt him, which is a rarity no matter what form he wears. Nothing to do with that at all.

Bodhi hums at him, then stands and wanders back to the register.

Baze rolls onto his side. The hardwood of the magic store is warm, and there’s no frantic barking from other dogs that Baze doesn’t really know how to interpret.

Bodhi sighs and spins in the stool at the register. “Baze, do you play fetch?” he asks.

Baze absolutely does not play fetch, and he’s enjoying lying down besides. He twitches an ear but otherwise ignores the kid.

“My mom used to have these two toy dogs that I always tried to play with when I was little, these Chihuahua mixes,” Bodhi says wistfully. “But I think my older sister traumatized them by trying to dress them up, so they wouldn’t have anything to do with me.” His voice trails off. “Actually, come to think of it, my family really enjoyed dressing up both me and the dogs. There’s probably a picture of me and those dogs all in matching sunglasses. Oh, that’s horrifying. Oh, I really wish I hadn’t started thinking about this.”

Worryingly, Baze thinks that the kid might be starting to grow on him.


	4. Chapter 4

Bodhi has, for most of life, felt as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. After all, life has helpfully shown him time and time again that there are an infinite number of shoes it’s willing to drop on him, and so living life in a state of constant shoe-vigilance seems, to Bodhi, very rational.

He triple-checks locks, always looks both ways before crossing streets, and double-knots his shoelaces. He runs check on inventory in triplicate, and he always checks shipments against the Imwe Magic Supply stocklist. It’s not Chirrut’s methods that he distrusts. Chirrut’s methods have clearly served him plenty well in the years that his shop’s been open, and so Bodhi trusts Chirrut’s methods, whatever they are. No, Bodhi distrusts _himself_. This job is too good. He’s not going to get complacent. Complacency means that when life drops another shoe, you mess up, and sometimes terrible things happen. And the only thing Bodhi knows for certain about life is that the next shoe is always coming.

Bodhi gets lost in his own metaphors a lot, which is an additional reason he tends to triple-check things.

It’s with this in mind that when Chirrut offers to send him home early, once the 5:30 rush is over, Bodhi refuses. “You’ve got Baze with you, and I know he’s good on the leash, but I’ll drive you back tonight. It’s really no problem. Besides, the dog food’s still in my trunk.”

Bodhi’s logic is that it would be _just his luck_ if the dog that Bodhi took Chirrut to adopt happened to drag Chirrut into traffic, thus killing him. Bodhi would then be out of a job. And, well, Chirrut would be dead, which would be upsetting, too. He feels guilty for worrying more about his continued employment than for Chirrut’s life, which feeds into his cosmic sense that something terrible is surely about to happen because now he kind of feels like he _deserves_ for something bad to happen as punishment. Anyways, conclusion: he insists on taking Chirrut home, and Chirrut sighs and consents.

They weather the after-work 5:30pm rush without incident. Chirrut takes one or two clients into the back room for more specialized consultations involving work too delicate to just have sitting out in the open, and Bodhi mans the register, answers a few questions about protective spells and ingredients needed for basic things. No one notices Baze, who is curled up in the perfect spot behind the counter to avoid being seen. It seems deliberate. Bodhi tells himself that there is no way Baze is anything but a dog. He _asked_ , after all, and felt pretty dumb doing it, too.

But that would be just Bodhi’s luck, too. Baze is going to turn out to be some wrathful guardian spirit trapped in the form of a Newfoundland mix, and he’s going to break the enchantment that binds him and curse Bodhi for insinuating he might be something as powerless and useless as a human.

The thought makes him glum, even though he realizes how patently absurd it is. If Baze was really anything like that, surely Chirrut would know. Chirrut had known the one time a woman came in with a vase she’d claimed was cursed that the vase was actually charmed to eavesdrop on them. And that Bodhi’s mother’s house had a poltergeist, without Bodhi mentioning it. And about Baze being in the shelter at all! And there’s _wards_ that guard the shop. Powerful ones that Chirrut laid down himself.

By the time the clock hits 7:30 and the store is closed, Bodhi has sufficiently convinced himself that Baze is just a dog that he only flinches a little bit when Baze stands up and shakes himself off.

Chirrut is quiet on the drive home, even though Bodhi tries to make conversation. He asks if Chirrut had pets growing up, and Chirrut says he didn’t; Bodhi ends up telling Chirrut about the two dogs his mom used to have. “Maybe I should tell her to get a dog again,” he says to himself more than Chirrut. “Now that that haunting issue is resolved. Maybe she’ll even get a bigger dog. Something with no Chihuahua in its ancestry. Wouldn’t that be something. Would it be unethical to tell her that bigger dogs scare ghosts more?”

“Possibly. I would do it anyways,” Chirrut says.

When they get to Chirrut’s house, Chirrut goes ahead with his cane and with Baze to unlock the front door. Bodhi somehow -- inadvisably -- manages to haul the big bag of dog food and the bag with Baze’s other things in only one trip. Chirrut is there, waiting with the door open, head tilted as he listens to Bodhi’s footsteps get closer and closer.

Bodhi manages to set everything down without anything banging or breaking, which he takes as a victory. He braces himself on his knees to catch his breath for a moment and sees a dark blur of movement that must be Baze, sniffing out his new surroundings.

Chirrut’s home is -- well, what Bodhi can see of it is nice. He’s never been inside before, despite giving Chirrut rides fairly often. The walls are all off-white, and at least from the entryway Bodhi can see a sofa in the living room and what looks to be a pretty serious sound system. The whole place is spotless, which shouldn’t be surprising. Does Chirrut use his cane here too? Or does he know the lay of the place well enough that as long as it’s clean, he can get around without it?

Bodhi straightens and sighs. “I got a little ambitious carrying things there,” he admits.

Chirrut’s expression flashes with amusement. “Have you recovered?”

“Uh, yes, I think so, yes.”

“Well, thank you for your assistance, Bodhi.” The amusement slips away; Chirrut seems more tired than usual, but Bodhi supposes he’s had a busier day than usual, too.

“No problem,” Bodhi says, shifting from foot to foot. “Um, if you need anything…”

“The Force will provide,” Chirrut says, with a weird, reserved kind of cryptic smile that does nothing to reassure Bodhi whatsoever.

“Well, er, you can also call me,” Bodhi says. “Just in case Baze chews through your plumbing and floods the house or something. Is that possible? That’s probably not possible.”

“Thank you, Bodhi,” Chirrut says. Amusement again. “Have a good evening.”

-

After unloading Baze’s food and bowls, Bodhi has just enough time to stop at a drive-through on his way to the meet-up. He always thinks of it as night school, but no one else calls it that, and he lives in dread of absolutely calling it that out loud and everyone staring at him blankly. Bodhi orders a burger and fries and a diet soda for the caffeine and even manages not to spill anything while driving. He’s sucking salt off his fingers when he one-handedly pulls his car into the parking lot of the nature center, where there’s just a couple other cars. It’s finally dark, and the yellow lights of the staff center look warm and comforting in the middle distance. Bodhi grabs his rucksack from under the passenger seat -- he never leaves it in plain view, no need to tempt a passing thief into a smash-and-grab -- and what would your average thief do with the sort of things that Bodhi carries around, anyways, try to mug someone with hemlock root? -- and triple-checks that he’s locked his car.

He sets down the narrow path towards the staff center. His work-day fears go dormant as his social life fears start to stir. Bodhi is well-accustomed to this and does his best to ignore the long litany of things that could go wrong when he gets to the staff center: This could be the day that the Guild cracks down on them. Or maybe they weren’t supposed to meet tonight and Bodhi missed the message and he’s about to confidently walk into a bridge game or a group of park rangers discussing ways to deter poaching or a group of thieves who’ve broken in to steal rare wildlife specimens. Or, a more quotidian but also more likely fear, maybe he’ll walk in right as someone else is making a joke about him, and half of the people will laugh really hard because they haven’t realized he’s there while the other half looks around awkwardly, trying to ignore him. 

Any of those things could happen! Most of them, Bodhi tells himself, probably won’t.

He pushes open the first-floor door to the staff center and hears familiar voices coming down the stairs and something in him eases. He jogs up the stairs, rucksack over one shoulder, and there’s the familiar ring of folding chairs, filled with familiar faces, amongst them Draven, the facilitator; Marwin, the park ranger who set up this whole definitely-not-previously-approved use of government property; Mothma, who scares him; and then there’s _Cassian_.

Bodhi sits two seats down from Cassian. Close enough he doesn’t find himself accidentally staring, far enough away that he doesn’t try to do something stupid like make conversation.

In the next few minutes, three others arrive, and then they get started.

-

Bodhi stays after to help put away the folding chairs, tidy up, generally make it look like they haven’t been there at all. “You really don’t have to,” Marwin protests, but it’s a nicety. There’s a definitive ozone smell of magic in the air that takes three open windows and a few minor wind charms to resolve.

The fact that Cassian always stays to tidy up in no way influences the fact that Bodhi always stays to tidy up, too. 

“Are we just about done?” Cassian asks, dusting his hands together. He looks, as always, incredible.

“I think so,” Marwin says. “Thanks again. You two can leave; I’ll lock up and everything.”

Cassian looks to Bodhi, who is, of course, already looking at Cassian, which Bodhi curses as an inevitable consequence of his utter inability to ever play it cool. Bodhi shrugs, though he’s not sure what he’s shrugging at. Usually there’s at least one other person who stays afterward to tidy up, meaning Bodhi gets to just walk behind Cassian and the other person while they talk. Not creepy at all.

Right now, though, he’s kind of at a loss.

Cassian heads down the stairs first, and Bodhi follows.

“So, Bodhi Rook,” Cassian says, as they exit into the night. “I don’t know you well. What keeps you busy?”

“I really don’t have much that keeps me busy, just work and night school, I guess.”

“Night school?”

Bodhi nearly trips over nothing. It might be merely the sheer terror of having to possibly catch himself on Cassian that keeps him upright. “Uh, that is. What I call this thing, I suppose.”

“Night school,” Cassian says. He sounds amused. He’s -- he’s definitely laughing to himself.

Bodhi is drafting plans to leave the country so he never has to look Cassian Andor in the face again, and then he realizes that Cassian is laughing but not laughing in the mean way. It’s a quiet, appreciative kind of chuckle. 

“I like that. Night school.”

He’s not laughing _at_ Bodhi. He’s laughing at what Bodhi _said_.

It both changes everything and also does exactly nothing to make Bodhi less nervous. In fact, it makes him a little more nervous, because Cassian’s amused laugh makes Bodhi’s stomach twist, and he has a sneaking suspicion that his neck is going hot.

“Yes, well, I figured, since we’re all coming here at night to -- to learn…”

“Night school. It makes sense,” Cassian says. “I like it. I like it.”

“So, uh, what have you been studying this week?”

“Laylines,” Cassian says, and leans in a little as they walk. “There’s one nearby, you know.”

With what Bodhi believes to be all the courage he has, he turns his head, meeting Cassian’s eyes in the dark, and says, “I didn’t know that, actually. Tell me more?”


End file.
